Illusions of Love
by Ghibli
Summary: Her heart and common sense are battling a war that has started since the day she met him. How much longer can she endure the current situation without it breaking her? Post-Blooodlines. GS.
1. In the Grand Scheme of Things

_Disclaimer_: If I _did _own CSI or anything related to it, I'd be sitting on the front porch of an 18th century Chateau, overlooking Lac Leman in Switzerland while getting a manicure. Since I'm not, it's safe to say that I don't own anything related to it.

_Title_: Illusions of Love

_Summary_: Her heart and common sense are battling a war that has started since the day she met him. How much longer can she endure the current situation without it breaking her? Post-Blooodlines. G/S.

_Spoilers:_ Since this is a post-Bloodlines story, there will be spoilers present.

_A/N notes:_ For all those who have reviewed my previous story with such kind words, a big thank-you. I'd also like to thank my wonderful betas Anansay, Battus and Mandy, and everyone else who has pushed me to once again 'just post this'. Without them, reading this story would probably have been hazardous to your health.

And LK, your "It's like my little beta is all grown up now."… May I call you 'delusional'? Alright, scrap the 'may'. I am calling you delusional. ;)

_In the Grand Scheme of Things._

Blue and white walls were tacked with posters and reminders, harsh fluorescent lights that brought out the slightest frown-lines adorning the faces of those lingering in the offices and hallways in a ruthless manner. Hysterical laughter and angry shouts swirled around the corridor, but none of it seemed to reach her. All that she could see were the few inches of changing space in front of her feet: each time she moved onto a new tile, the pattern stayed the same, the uniformity only broken up by the occasional wad of gum or resistant coffee stain.

What she felt was different. Different in its complexity. Different in that it felt so familiar yet strange. That it somehow frightened, yet comforted her. That it made her hopeful, yet desperately sad. A cacophony of feelings, each fighting for supremacy. Her heart battling her common sense in a war that had been raging since the day she'd met him.

Funny how she couldn't remember any of the phone numbers of the take-out deli's she ordered from on an almost daily basis, but how, with such crystal clarity, her first memory of him is imprinted on her synapses.

Every little thing that he had ever said pertaining to her was carved upon her memory, from when she met him ten years ago to now. Every praise and every smack down, each wink and frown had their own space allowing her to easily recall them. And recalling, and reliving them, she did.

She had been lounging with several friends on one of the countless lawns at Berkeley when one of the women had softly whistled and nudged her shoulder. "Who's taking Dr. Grissom's course tomorrow?" A few had nodded and grunted in concurrence, including Sara. "I've seen a good dose of delectable professors, but he is certainly in my top five." Suddenly, five pairs of female eyes skimmed the surroundings, until each of them had landed firmly on the sight of Gil Grissom.

Sara had seen her fair share of good looking men, from the Scandinavian types with blond hair and blue eyes to the seductive Spanish looking ones with jet-black hair and brooding eyes. Yet none had ever quite caught her attention the same way Dr. Grissom had. What made him stand out was not just his appearance, though tall, curly brown hair and, judging from his forearms, a fairly muscled body, didn't do him any harm. It was his charisma that gripped her. She didn't pretend to be an expert in body language, but even from afar, she could sense that he wasn't an easily read person. That underneath the front he displayed, even when talking to a fellow professor, there was something far deeper, far more complex than he was willing to share with outsiders.

The draft of cold night air ended her reminiscing abruptly, and she blinked a few times, dislodging her memories and focusing her attention on the hand that held the door open for her. Not a word had been said since his soft and compassionate 'Let me take you home'. His hand which had felt surprisingly soft and cool on her clammy skin had not left her body. It had migrated from her hand to her elbow, and then to the small of her back, where it now nestled comfortably. Like it was meant to be there, forever.

"Your place or mine?" The question came abruptly, shattering the silence that had cocooned them. She looked confused, as if to say 'Neither is home'.

She straightened. "Mine. You can just drop me off. It'll be easiest for both of us."

The Tahoe's lights blinked once and a door was once again opened for her, and she stepped in. Hearing the door softly close, she noticed him from the periphery of her sight walking around the car and getting in a few seconds later. The only sound that registered was the soft hum of the engine.

They passed the casinos with the outrageous neon lights, blinking as though to scare the night away, providing an artificial glow that seemed to attract the visitors like snails to beer.

The towering fountains sped by, spurting their water stories high on a regular basis, whether it be every five minutes or half hour, allowing people to forget that Las Vegas was a desert-city. People would look on with wonder at the marvels of technology that allowed thousands of gallons of water to be pumped daily up into the air. But not Sara. Sara never saw it. She only saw her reflection in the window: the bags under her eyes, the drawn lines that made her seem older than she was, the exhaustion clearly reflected in her brown eyes.

She wondered when she became this sullen, this lonely, and this tired. Her energy used to be boundless, even a triple shift wouldn't knock a dent in her determination. If anything, unsolved cases would show her real character. An unlikely mix, she possessed the calm and stealth of a greyhound, yet the determination and stubbornness of a pit bull. It made her one of the best in her job, but socially it caused her more grief than glory. She was too independent, too much of a solitary person, too smart perhaps for her own good. Some thought her stuck-up because of her intelligence, others were frightened by her fierce independence. And she herself was frightened of her feelings for the man sitting next to her. For her feelings for him were strong, much stronger than they had ever been for any other man. And he was afraid of her as well, like so many others. Not a great confidence booster, nor something that made her feel proud. Rather lonely and dysfunctional. For what was wrong with her? Why couldn't the man that she loved love her back? Or if he did, act upon it?

Suddenly she realized that the car's engine had stopped, and that they were in the parking spot before her house. Now, Grissom's Tahoe was standing there, the engine cut and he waiting patiently for her to get out of the car. She huffed. Out of all the scenarios, this was the one she had never considered. Grissom taking her home because of a DUI charge. So he touched her hand and had been awfully nice to her for the last half hour. It didn't mean much in the grand scheme of things. Tomorrow, if she'd still have a job, he'd be most likely treating her like the soot that's present at the bottom of an empty wine bottle. Necessary to the team, but never fully appreciated. And all too easy to throw away.

She felt something touch her hand and she looked down and up into the face of her supervisor. His eyes were a stormy blue, and although she tried her best not to fall captive once again, she failed. The tears welled up and she blinked furiously, trying to keep the salty liquid from flowing down her cheeks. But his gaze, open and concerned, didn't help matters and she lost the battle. The tears followed gravity's path, and would have dropped onto her shirt had he not intervened and tenderly wiped them away. Startled, she looked up and removed his hands from her face. She didn't need this. She didn't need his caring and temporary closeness. She ducked underneath his arm that was placed on the rooftop, uttered a soft ' thank you' and walked tall and straight to her door. She wouldn't show her weakness and pain now. He had bailed her out of the station and brought her home, and that was all he would see of her tonight.

But she misjudged him. He didn't let her leave that easily, and by the time she had fitted the key into her lock, he had jogged up to her apartment and stood beside her, his deep and even breaths softly fluttering her hair.

"Grissom, I'll be fine. Just go, please."

_To Be Continued._

_As always, feedback is greatly appreciated. _


	2. Stop Haunting Me

_Disclaimer_: Same as the previous chapter. I am still not in any possible way related to CSI or any of its corporate affiliates.

_A/N notes_: Once again, thank you to my betas and friends, and for the reviews.

_Stop Haunting Me._

She looked over her shoulder expecting him to move away, like he had been doing lately, whenever she got too close. Several years ago they would have basked in each other's presence, wanting to prolong the sensations that would course through them. But that had rapidly vanished. She hadn't been able to pinpoint the exact time, but it seemed to have happened around the time of the Haviland trial, when Philippe Gerard had so kindly 'pointed out' the "relationship" between her and Hank in front of Grissom. That memory was imprinted also, as was the look of hurt, even anguish, on Grissom's face when he looked at her that particular time.

Grissom had moved away, but only a few inches, giving her the space she needed to at least outwardly compose herself. Holding the keys with one hand and the other one softly touching the door, she stood motionless, gathering courage to once again step into a lonely house. A house that in the last four years had never become a proper home. "I'm sure you have better things to do than baby-sit me, Grissom. Go home, we can survive without each other."

She pushed open the door and walked in, sensing that Grissom had no intention of leaving her alone. At least not right now. She tossed her coat onto a nearby chair and kicked off her shoes, not caring where or how they landed. "Coffee?"

His reply wasn't a mere yes or no. It didn't even answer her one-worded question. "Was this a one-time thing, Sara?"

Stunned, she turned around, confusion and anger battling for superiority. "I'm not an alcoholic, Grissom, if that's what you're asking. I have disappointed myself on countless occasions and done some foolish things in my life, but being an alcoholic isn't one of them." On seeing his frown and slightly clenched eyes, she exclaimed "For Christ's sake Grissom. Not acknowledging the problem is the first thing anyone who's addicted does. Don't you think I know that? Search the house, the cupboards, my pockets. The only thing you'll find are a couple of beer bottles. That's it!" Furious, she turned around, grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge. "Are you done with your little inspection, because then you can go and leave me alone. You've haunted me enough as it is."

Hearing the percolator gurgle and smelling the aroma of freshly brewed coffee, she looked around and saw Grissom leaning against the counter, arms loosely folded, his eyes locked on her form, yet seemingly miles away. Even after three beers she recognized his stand as one that's 'protective of the heart and inner personality', or at least that was the explanation she remembered. She didn't quite remember who told her that, but she didn't mind. Memories consisted of crystal clear images and sounds, as well as those that lingered in the mind, but always seemed hazy. This particular memory was in the latter catagory.

Deciding that she'd done enough talking for the night, she folded her arms as well, eyes fixed on his. It took a while before he responded, blinking once then steadily meeting her gaze. What was different was the intensity that existed in them. She had always seen his eyes as the most expressive part of him; with contempt and superiority shining from them they could render any suspect defenseless, with compassion and tenderness they could convey his regard and admiration for a victim. Yet all the while, his eyes would only be showing a glimpse of himself. While they were often called the windows to the soul, with him, it seemed these windows were glazed or tinted, halting any deep insight into who he was. But now, Sara realized that his eyes were clear and open, allowing her to reach deeper and see more than she was ever intentionally allowed to. And it confused her once again. For why now would he allow her to see him? Why now, after all those years and all those cases, after all the joys and sweet flirting in the earlier times, then the sorrow and tears in the later ones? She couldn't trust him, not with matters of the job, and most certainly not with matters of the heart.

"What's your biggest fear, Sara? Mine is allowing myself to love you, and then having to let you go."

Eyes wide, mouth slightly agape, she did a quick shake of the head. What was wrong with the man? Did he purposely keep her on edge, capable of knocking her over the cliff of sanity yet keeping her dangling with one fragile lifeline? "My biggest fear, Grissom, is to be alone. Not solitary, but alone. And I'm getting damned close."

Her fingers kept the now half empty water bottle in a death-like grip, the malformed plastic not able to withstand the pressure. Pouring the remainder down the drain, she turned to throw it away in the trashcan. Anything to keep busy, anything to not give in to the urge of throwing it with all her might across the room, knocking over one of the few memorabilia she had collected over the years. Then suddenly, he stood next to her, once again closer than was expected. In a move reminiscent of earlier that evening, he flexed his hand before taking hers gently in his grasp. When she uttered no objection, no stepping away from him or an angry gaze being directed towards him, he delicately took her other hand and softly ran his thumb over the dry skin.

"When I got the call earlier this evening, the first thing I thought off was that it was too late. Too late for me to finally realize who'd been in front of me all those years: A beautiful, vivacious, intelligent, independent woman who, each time she looks at me, smiles at me, even walks into the same room as me, has a spectacular effect on my heart rate." He cocked his head, a soft smile forming on his face. "There are so many things that I've done lately that I regret, Sara; pushing you away while you needed someone to support you, allowing my personal feelings and biases to enter into the realm of professionalism, robbing you of a deserved promotion. Turning down your dinner invitation." He allowed one hand to let her go, only to slowly trail up an arm and neck to cup her cheek. Taking a deep breath, closing his eyes momentarily he continued, "I can't undo the past. But I can stop it from happening again."

Hesitantly, he opened his eyes again, gauging Sara's reaction. Deep in his heart, he knew that he was more than partially to blame for what happened tonight. He didn't believe that she was an alcoholic, but he knew that her tired appearance, her diminished enthusiasm at work, her increasingly lonely existence were factors that he had contributed to. And he was determined to at least mend their friendship. Only then was there a true possibility of taking their relationship further. For what future had a romantic entanglement if there was no true friendship and trust between the lovers?

Her feelings were again tumbling and jostling around inside of her, but now the anger and resignation didn't win the inner battle. Hope did, and acceptance. For what she saw in his countenance and heard in his voice told her that he did care for her. More than she allowed herself to hope lately. "Try to be my friend again, Grissom? I don't think I'm ready for anything more. That is, if you want more."

Two strong arms were carefully draped around her back and drew her softly to him, enveloping her in an embrace that would last forever in her memories. "I will try to be your friend again, Sara. But I will continue to make mistakes, not on purpose, but because I don't know better. All the reasons why we shouldn't be involved still stand, and most of them are permanent. Age, work, me. I'm a stubborn old mule, Sara, but I will try with all my might to be your friend again, one who you can trust to be there for you at all times of the day and night, regardless of work. And when you're ready to branch out into a romantic relationship, tell me. I'll be waiting."

Neither one initiated it, but in the seconds that followed, their lips met, if only as a taste of what lay ahead in their future. Sweet, soft and sensual, it conveyed love rather than lust, patience over longing.

Perhaps all the images and memories that had been replayed and rehashed countless times over the last years had never been mere illusions of love. Perhaps they had always been real.

_Feedback welcomed._


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